Not Anymore
by Kirk Mathison
Summary: Ricardo Irving muses on his life as Chris and Sheva gain on the boat, preparing to board it. One-shot, slight slash. M for language.


Ricardo Irving paced around the dock of the ship, staring at the 'gift' the hooded woman had given him. He clutched it in his pale hand, his breathing labored. Had it really come down to this? Was this really 'it' for him? Goddamn Excella. His heart thumped painfully fast in his chest and his stomach churned. He'd been planning on taking his money and bailing, leaving Tricell in the dirt when the hooded woman had swooped down on him, demanding that he use the sample to stop them. He leaned over the edge of the ship and threw up once, trying to blame it on seasickness. His life started to flash before his eyes, and he felt tears oncoming.

His earliest memory was Christmas of 1986. He was three years old, and his parents had swung together what had to be the greatest Christmas Morning in the History of Christmas Mornings. He'd gotten a Cabbage Patch Kid, an ugly doll that he'd carry with him until the ripe old age of 7, a rocking horse, and hol-ee-shit, the Coolest Optimus Prime Transforming Action Figure Ever Made.

In 1988, he started Kindergarten. He was picked on, a little bit, but made a few very good friends. The teacher, an elderly woman called Mrs. H., loved him to death, and thought he was the cleverest little thing she'd ever seen. He got treats for spelling all his words right (thanks to that goddamn Speak & Spell Pa had gotten him the previous year, he was sure of it), and never got one red, or even yellow sticker on his behavior chart, only green ones.

His parents were good people. His Pa was the stern, quiet type and he worked lots of hours at the Umbrella factory boxing up something-or-other to provide for his family. His Ma was a nurse, and she helped sick people, and that was good.

He started high school in the autumn of 1997 and saw things radically change almost immediately. He was beaten senseless by some lunchroom bullies the first day, and so he reformulated his strategy on how to 'handle' his schooling. He used bribes and threats until he was a diminuitive mastermind. He had a gang of kids bigger than him who'd do his bidding, and all he had to do was their crappy retard math homework. By the second week of school, no one dared lay a finger on him. He wouldn't let anyone touch him without permission ever again.

The summer brought the end of that school year, and disturbing occurances in Raccoon City, somewhere halfway across the country. His parents watched the news in silence, and his mother muttered something about 'those poor people,' but Ricardo didn't care as long as he could go outside and ride his bike or his skateboard.

A few months later, just as school was back in session and he was a sophomore, Raccoon City suffered a full viral outbreak and was bombed. In the coming months, the president would resign, Umbrella's stock would plummet, and his father would lose his job when the company went under. His Pa found a job working in a factory not too long afterward with a company called "Tricell."

Within a few years, he too was with the company, scheming his way to the top. His Pa didn't question his frequent promotions, but often said that he was proud of his only son.

Now, as Ricardo stood on the ship dock, the vial of control plaga in his hand, he wondered what his father would think.

In 2004, he was placed in charge of the oil refinery that had gone up in West Africa. He'd accumulated a good deal of wealth and had given his family a real retirement, but he was obsessed with the money. He'd convinced Excella Gione, CEO of Tricell's African Division, to put him in charge of special dealings with B.O.W.'s on the Black Market.

And that's how he met Frederic.

Frederic Downing was the head researcher of WilPharma, a companion of Tricell's. He had been developing a vaccine for both the T and G viruses, but needed more. Irving had flown stateside and visited his parents before heading to the WilPharma facility.

He was directed up to the office by an automated guide that completely pissed him off (they could have had someone working that job, making money for their family, he'd snarled to himself), and knocked on the door.

The British voice that told him to come in warranted an eye-roll before he pushed the door open, putting on his best business face.

Downing was dreadfully handsome, with his grey hair and baby blue eyes framed by designer glasses. He wore a suit that matched his hair, and a smile that made Irving want to hit him. He didn't hit him. Instead, he moved to shake his hand. They exchanged pleasantries and Irving soon became aware that Downing was sizing him up, no doubt wondering how to best dupe him into a cheap sale.

Irving put his war face on and, after heated negotiations, sold the samples at full price, in exchange for a date.

Downing had very quickly become a subject of love and hate for Irving. They fought ferociously. They were horribly distrusting of one another, and had many long distance fights once Irving returned to Africa.

The next year, WilPharma was caught up in a scandal, and Downing was thrown into prison. Irving, disappointed and heartbroken, put all of his energy back into his work.

In 2009, Wesker showed up. Excella was seduced without effort, immediately wrapped around the man and basking in his glowing skin and devilishly good looks. Irving had privately sneered at the situation. Excella couldn't tell that she was being used, and often wound up heartbroken, like a 14 year old girl having a fight with her first boyfriend. Wesker was fair to him, but it didn't matter how fair he was if he'd upset Excella. She liked to take it out on Irving, lumping him with dirty jobs.

It was Excella that had given him the Control Plaga that he now clutched in his hand.

There was a thud. The BSAA agents were here. He stalked out, eyes wild.

"Won't you two just die already?" He clutched the Control Plaga in his hand, trembling. "You're makin' me look bad!" He watched them exchange confused expressions. He sauntered toward them. "Who do you think got this entire operation off the ground? Research like this doesn't fund itself, ya know. Yet everyone looks down on me." He stopped, running his tongue over his teeth once.

This was it. He held the Plaga sample up, staring at it distantly. "But not anymore."


End file.
